Gladyss of the Hunt (34 page)

“Well, I woke up when you shoved your dick into me!”

“You're making it sound like I raped you,” he said, pulling his boxers on.

“Technically you did.”

“Look, I drank too much too, so . . . I'm sorry if I misunderstood.” He put on his shirt.

It was all a blur, so I couldn't really argue with him. And since I had never actually told him I was a virgin, I would've felt like a fool mentioning it now.

“SUEEEWEEE!” we heard again through the wall.

“Who the fuck
is
that?”

“Crispin the evil clown. He stayed over with Maggie after the show.” Noel explained, filling a glass with water from the sink. “And I told you I'd come by, remember?”

“How'd you get in?” I asked.

“Maggie has your key.”

“I don't remember a thing,” I said, trying to flip on my brain.

“You got totally shitfaced at the Rocmarni show and caused a huge scene with Venezia—”

“Oh shit, did any photographers.—”

“Yeah. I tried stopping you, but . . .”

“Then you brought me home?”

“No, I still had to do the show, I came here afterwards.”

I felt like a total fool. “I just can't believe…”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. I really am,” he said earnestly.

When I got to the bathroom, I confirmed that I had officially lost my virginity, but I had no reason to celebrate. I was sore and my breasts felt raw as hell. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw bright red bruises around my nipples.

“Did you do this?” I asked opening the bathroom door.

He asked what I was talking about.

“These marks,” I pointed to the red welts around my breasts.

“You can barely see them.”

“I can sure feel them,” I said, cupping them in my hands.

“I don't recall being that hard . . . Gladyss, I'm really sorry.”

When I closed the bathroom door I could also see the bruises along
my lower back and belly in the mirror, still healing from O'Flaherty's attack. I started the shower and brushed and gargled while it was running hot. As I gently soaped up, I tried to wash away the humiliating memories of last night, which were unfortunately coming back to me. After I'd drunk all those tiny bottles and made a complete ass of myself with Venezia, I remembered being escorted out of the fashion show. I also vaguely recalled being brought home by someone and then passing out.

When I tried toweling off, I almost lost my balance. All my muscles were trembling and my head was spinning. Noel stood next to the window, where his cell phone got the best reception, talking plans and deals. Slowly I set about making coffee, but had to dash back into the bathroom to puke.

I couldn't stop wondering what the hell Noel thought he was doing. It had replaced the O'Flaherty attack as my number one anxiety. The whole thing was so strange because he was here, and I liked him, and more than anything else I had wanted to have sex with him. And to his credit, he had held back the first time when I‘d invited him in. But now he'd done this creepy thing, entering me when I was asleep. And I felt guilty, as though I had brought this on myself. I was also having difficulty understanding why I'd been so out of it—usually I could tolerate more alcohol than the contents of a few mini bottles.

I flushed and washed my face, then as I exited the bathroom Noel dashed into it. After he'd showered, he came out nude and glistening, as though he had bathed in oil.

Normally I would've rushed to get him a spare towel, and make coffee, but it took all my concentration just to down two aspirins.

“Are you okay?” Noel said with a look of concern.

“I don't know, was I?”

“What?”

“I just would've liked being conscious for our first time.”

“I'm really sorry,” he said timidly. “You were rubbing up against me and you were naked, so I thought—”

“I can't believe I got so plastered.” I placed my sweaty face flat on the cool Formica tabletop. “Oh God! I made a complete ass of myself in front of all those people!”

“Venezia has a three-hundred-dollar-a-day habit, and in all the time I've known her, you're the only person who's ever tried to stop her,” he replied. “You should be commended. Hell, I'm sorry for preventing you, it was just awkward with the press and all those people watching. Poor Antonio. He had invested so much money in the show, and he was freaking out.”

“I'm sorry for embarrassing you,” I said earnestly.

“Being embarrassed in this profession is like being shy in a porn film,” he replied and kissed me gently between my bruises. “Maybe you should call in sick today.”

“I'm already on the sick list,” I mumbled. Maybe it was part of my OCD, but I just couldn't stay still.

When I struggled to rise, Noel helped me over to my closet. As I slowly dressed, he kept trying to convince me to stay home in bed, but I was propelled by the humiliation of last night. Noel hailed us a cab and deposited me in front of my precinct. Only after I'd staggered up the stairs did I realize exactly how feeble I was.

“Aren't you supposed to be at home recuperating?” Annie said as I reached the squad room.

“Yes, I know,” I replied. “But now that I'm here I feel too weak to leave.” She laughed as though I were kidding.

Bernie and I must've been born under the same sign, because he called in saying that he too was sick and would be late. I dozed for about an hour with my head on my desk until I could hear his wheezing. He staggered into his office, slamming his door behind him. Apparently I wasn't the only one who had gotten blasted last night.

Alex told me we had a variety of interviews lined up for today, tracking down anyone and everyone who knew Jane Hansen or Caty Duffy, the two victims of the unresolved Marilyn murders, as they were now being called.

“If I'm not mistaken, William Holden died of an alcohol-related injury,” I heard Annie saying from afar.

“So who's this guy? His son?” I heard Bernie ask. I figured they were talking about me.

“Well no, they just happen to share a last name,” Annie clarified.

“Christ, you're dating Noel Holden?” Alex asked me.

I got up, and shuffled into Bernie's office, where I was immediately
greeted by his decomposing foot, which he had propped up on a box in front of him. Swollen and purple, shading to a yellowish green around the heel, it looked like a rotting piece of exotic fruit and smelled like Limburger cheese. I plunked myself down on his couch and said, “If you don't mind, my private life is my own business.”

“Not when it's on
page six
of the
New York Post
.”

Bernie held up the morning edition. “If IAD wasn't overwhelmed by real cases, they'd be tearing you a new one right now.”

I didn't tell him that according to O'Ryan they were already after me.

“What the hell did you
do
to Venezia Ramada?” Annie asked out of nowhere.

“Hundreds of people were just sitting, watching her snort a mountain of coke, so I tried to stop her,” I said, as Bernie gingerly wedged his swollen foot back into his shoe.

“Then why the fuck didn't you arrest her?” he asked, before launching into a coughing fit that compelled Annie to scoot.

“What's the name of this woman who has the Marilyn Monroe web site?” he asked when he could finally talk again.

“Miriam Williams.”

“And she's friends with this Noel character?”

“Correct.”

“He introduced you to her?”

“Correct.”

“How'd you meet this Noel clown?”

“I threatened to give him a summons for smoking in a restaurant.”

“When was this?”

“That day when I met you at the Templeton. Earlier that day.”

“While you were in uniform?”

It seemed like an opportune time to explain that I was initially interested in Noel because I thought he was a possible suspect in the Blonde Hooker murders.

“You thought he was a suspect for
that
case?”

“Well, he was a half a block away from the Nelly Linquist murder scene that morning. And when I left the hotel that night after I'd sealed the room, hours later, I spotted him across the street as though he had been watching all day. Then I talked with him afterwards. He seemed to have a weird fascination with serial murderers.”

“Did he pick you up while you were in uniform?”

“I agreed to go to a party with him while I was in my blues, yeah.”

“See, when you're wearing a uniform, you cease to be a woman, understand? You're a New York City police officer, and you abused that position.”

“Male cops hit on girls all the time,” I pointed out.

“It's still abuse. And you know what, once they're done fucking the uniform, and they see the slob underneath, they always dump them. Always.”

“Well considering
he's
a big celebrity, maybe I'm abusing
his
uniform.”

Bernie rolled his eyes.

“Look,” I said. “I did suspect him at first, which was why I became friendly, so I was able to get his prints. For that matter, I even checked his alibi with another cop.”

“With someone in homicide?” Annie asked from the doorway. Apparently she had been eavesdropping.

“No, when I was still in NSU.”

“Let me get this straight.” Bernie was growing more pissed by the minute. “Without consulting me, you checked out his alibi and prints. And once you were convinced he was innocent, you started fucking him?”

After what seemed like minutes of angry silence, I told Bernie I had an unbelievable headache.

“Go home!” he roared. “You're still on sick leave. And be grateful—if you weren't all bruised up, I'd start disciplinary action against you myself,” he said as I headed out of the squad room.

I cabbed it back home and made it to my bed by noon, kicking my shoes off and dropping my clothes on the floor. Just as I hit the bed my phone rang.

It was my brother, calling to tell me he'd had a really bad twenty-four hours. It was hard to imagine his day could be any worse than mine, but in an effort to be supportive, I asked him what was up. He said he'd been hearing voices nonstop.

“Let me guess, you're off your meds?”

“They're making me feel so weird. I just tried to reduce the dosage a little.”

“Carl, that's how you have an episode!”

“I know, I know. I was just wondering, do you never hear anything weird?”

“And by weird you mean . . .”

“In your head, I guess.”

“I
saw
something weird,” I said tiredly, then wished I hadn't.

“Yeah? What?”

“I'm sure it was just because I was finishing a yoga class, so I was sweaty and overheated.”

“Well what did you see?”

“While I was relaxing, with my eyes closed, I had a vision of this figure. It turned out to be Diana, the goddess of the hunt.”

“You're kidding!”

“No, but it was no big deal,” I replied. “What did you hear?”

“It was about 9/11?”

I groaned inwardly. “Yeah?”

“Well, I had this vision . . . And then I did some research, and . . . See, this is where things get weird, because I found a link between reality and what I heard in my head.”

“What link?”

“You're going to shit yourself, but Osama Bin Laden selected Bloomberg to be the new mayor of New York.

“See?” I said exhaustedly. “This is why we need to take our meds.”

“He didn't launch the attack on 9/11 because those numbers, 9-1-1, also signify an emergency—he did it 'cause it was the primary!”

“
What
was the primary?”

“The Democratic primary for mayor of New York! It was scheduled for September 11th. Remember, they postponed it. Mark Green ended up winning the nomination. He was the Democratic candidate in a city where Democrats outnumber Republicans five to one, while Bloomberg was little more than a blip on the radar, no one took him seriously. He'd always been a Democrat and only switched to the Republicans to avoid the primary. A billionaire with no political experience was the candidate for a party that no one would've voted for after eight years of Rudy. Then the planes hit the towers, and suddenly everything goes topsy-turvy. Giuliani becomes insanely popular, because everyone loves Daddy during a crisis. And he throws the mantle to this little guy who's out in right field . . . What you have is one billionaire in the Middle East helping another billionaire, one
Arab, the other Jewish, but it doesn't matter because money is the greater identity . . .”